I can listen to a sad song, think of an old memory, or just glance at something that moves me and break into tears for no reason at all.

It’s weird how the saddest moments in life can be some of my favorite because I get to feel something and remember that I’m human.

Sometimes, it seems like I’ve become so numb, so focused on the destination that I’ve forgotten to enjoy the journey; forgotten how to feel anything. I spend so much time pretending to be strong, so the moments when I get to break down and be vulnerable make me feel alive.

Sometimes I think I’m addicted to pain, and that that’s why I’m always drawn to broken people whom I know will hurt me.

There have been moments, though, when one of these broken souls has moved mountains in me instantly—parts of myself I’d long forgotten existed. And, like a drug, I yearned for more. They were so pure, so gentle, so beautiful, and they didn’t even know it. But in that very moment, I chose to leave because I knew better than to destroy them. I left so I could remember them just as they were, perfectly imperfect.

Broken people are the strongest people I know. Their pain is so beautiful to me. I absorb it, and, like painting on a blank canvas, transform it into art.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy with myself. I am so happy because I have found serenity in my pain. It moves me and inspires me. I’ve found strength in grieving people who are still alive, in handing out kindnesses to those who may not deserve it, in forgiving those who’ve hurt me without expecting an apology.